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Poem by Vachel Lindsay


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The Moon’s the North Wind’s cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there’s but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy 
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!



Vachel Lindsay


Vachel Lindsay's other poems:
  1. Upon Returning to the Country Road
  2. Sweet Briars of the Stairways
  3. The Haughty Snail-King
  4. The Spice-Tree
  5. The Master of the Dance


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